Harbor Memorial Library

A woman recalls fond memories of a library. (Original version above, revised below. A bit suggestive.)

The plastic button lights up under my finger. There’s the ceremonial ding to introduce the opening doors.

 

A stranger asks what floor.

 

“Six, please.” That was always our floor.

 

The whole room jolts as the doors close. The stranger and I share in the awkward silence that is the ride to the third floor. Ding. He exits. Another jolt.

 

Ding. I instantly recognize the smell of old wood polish, stale books, and recycled air. The quietest place in the library. The emptiest, too. No one there but the books on the shelves and the birds perched outside the windows. This was always our floor.

 

Ever since I met him, he was constantly looking for new places to work. He said he always needed new inspiration. He never escaped the writing process. A small notebook in his back pocket would be the third wheel on all our dates. I’d bug him about it, but he’d always say, “Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.” For some reason, he made it a daily habit of quoting Poe.

 

He told me one day about his latest discovery: the top floor of the downtown library. Usually he never liked having me around when he worked, so I found it interesting when he invited me to join him. I told him I didn’t want to impede, but he insisted. I was rebounding off my rejection from law school, and he claimed this would be the best place to study, so I agreed.

 

Instantly, it was easy to see why he’d liked it up here. The South-facing wall of windows allowed the perfect amount of light to illuminate the stacks, never getting too bright. We were thankful for the sun. After an hour of working, the motion-activated fluorescents would cease their buzzing. The seating was comfortable enough to endure a day of studying, but falling asleep in them would prove painful.  It was the little things.

 

Our loneliness was the haven’s perfection, but therein lied its problem. After weeks of days filled with long, silent hours, he was the one to break the silence. “Study break?”

 

I distinctly remember saying no. 

 

I distinctly remember his smirk convincing me otherwise.

 

I distinctly remember his teeth against my neck.

 

The cold metal of the bookshelf against my back.

 

The way his heavy breath felt against my shoulders.

 

It was hard to ignore my nervousness about someone walking in on us, but it got easier. My spine became familiar with the canvas spines of the books no one had touched in ages, and somehow I felt this intimacy was no different than their previous love affairs with their temporary owners.

 

I continued to study and he continued to write poetry. He also started to read more. When I would look up from my books, he’d be somewhere different, either lounging on the couch or curled up in a chair, but always with a smile on his face and a pen in his hand.

 

One day, months later, I sat alone in the chilled air of the sixth floor lobby. I heard the moving shaft of the elevator and anticipated its opening. It opened, but never for me. He never showed up that day.

 

I distinctly remember crying, “No.”

 

I distinctly remember their frowns confirming the truth.

 

I distinctly remember tears trickling down my neck.

 

The cold wood of the casket against my hand.

 

The heavy hands comforting my shoulders.

 

All that’s left of him is the doodles he illustrated on the old, solid-wood tables with the chipping edges. And a note. One note in the last book he’d woken from its dusty sleep that sat waiting for me on a desk. We loved with a love that was more than love.

 

So I search for more. And I live off of the memories of bliss-filled study breaks.

Ding.

 

“Six, please.”

**

*********************** Revised version below**************************

**

The plastic button lights up under my finger. There’s the ceremonial ding to introduce the opening doors.

 

A stranger asks what floor.

 

“Six, please.” That was always our floor.

 

The whole room jolts as the doors close while the stranger and I share in the awkward silence that is the ride to the third floor. Ding. He exits. Another jolt.

 

Ding. I instantly recognize the smell of old wood polish, stale books, and recycled air. The quietest place in the library. The emptiest, too. No one there but the books on the shelves and the birds perched outside the windows. This was always our floor.

 

Ever since I met Eli, he was constantly looking for new places to work. He said he always needed new inspiration; he never escaped the writing process. A small notebook in his back pocket would be the third wheel on all our dates. I’d bug him about it, but he’d always say, “Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.” For some reason, he made it a daily habit of quoting Poe.

 

He also made it a daily habit to remind me how famous he planned on becoming, and I wondered if anyone would ever publish someone with a catchy name like Eli Abney who wrote short poems inspired by people-watching.

 

We were at a park one day when he told me about his latest retreat. As he began to describe the top floor of the downtown library, his eyes wandered towards the other park-goers.  “It’s really authentic feeling, and it’s, uh-,” he scribbled in his notebook and moved his eyes back up to the people that did nothing to warrant his attention, “- it’s, uh, oh! It’s really quiet. You really should come with me next time.” He looked at me with his last word. Usually he never liked having me around when he worked, but I was rebounding off my rejection from law school, and he claimed this would be the best place to study. I agreed.

 

            Instantly, it was easy to see why he’d liked it up here. The South-facing wall of windows allowed the perfect amount of light to illuminate the stacks, never getting too bright. We were thankful for the sun. Our subjects had enthralled us to immobility, so much so that after an hour of working, the motion-activated fluorescents would cease their buzzing. And the seating was comfortable enough to endure a day of studying, but falling asleep in them would prove painful.  It was the little things.

 

Weeks passed, I continued to study, and he continued to write poetry. Every now and then I’d look up at him perched in his usual creaky wooden chair with his face nearly touching those South-facing windows. He told me he was writing poems about the made up lives of the people he watched below. He never let me read them though. Said he had never finished a poem that he let someone read before it was done.

 

He would observe, I would watch him observe. In that sense, our time together in the library didn’t seem much different than our outings. Only difference was we were alone here. Our loneliness was the haven’s perfection, but therein lied its problem.

 

 “Study break?”

 

I distinctly remember saying no. 

 

I distinctly remember his smirk convincing me otherwise.

 

I distinctly remember his lips against my neck.

 

The cold metal of the bookshelf against my back.

 

The way his heavy breath felt against my shoulders.

 

It was hard to ignore my nervousness about someone walking in on us, but after the first few times, it got easier. My spine became familiar with the canvas spines of the books no one had touched in ages, and somehow I felt this intimacy was no different than their previous love affairs with their temporary owners.

 

Things changed. The lights rarely turned off anymore, and we developed immunity to the nap-induced pains. When we did work, though, my occasional glances at him would be met with his eyes instead the back of his head, and you don’t expect a statue to move. I couldn’t help but think that a few of his poems were starting to be about us rather than the complete strangers he acquainted himself with every day. I promised myself I would read one the next chance I got. I hadn’t realized how soon that chance was going to be.

 

 Two days later, I sat alone in the chilled air of the sixth floor lobby. I heard the moving shaft of the elevator and anticipated its opening. But it never opened for me. He didn’t show up that day.

 

I distinctly remember crying, “No.”

 

I distinctly remember their frowns confirming the truth.

 

I distinctly remember tears trickling down my neck.

 

The cold wood of the casket against my hand.

 

The heavy hands comforting my shoulders.

 

The only sign he ever existed in this library is the doodles he illustrated on the old, solid-wood tables with the chipping edges. And a note. One note in the last book he’d woken from its dusty sleep that sat waiting for me on a desk: We loved with a love that was more than love.

Author's Note

Please point out any grammatical errors or wording you might believe to be awkward, although any and all comments are appreciated. I would love any feedback on the revised version.

Reviews

[roarke]

An excellent story. A memory, an impressional series of events. You bring the reader in on the elevator, and then in a retelling narration bring to life two people. Setting, moment, character, all well crafted. Nice work.

[Eagle Cruagh]

Ah, suggestive ! And the library with a man who
quotes Poe. This is taking a sinister twist.
Geeeezz, no wonder he was smiling ---- a natural
trysting place, top floor of the library.
And finally nothing left of him but a note. "We loved
with a love that was more than love".
Exfquisite.... Love it.
---- John

[An owl on the moon]

There is such an intimate power and passion confessed through your words, with that haunting feeling of loss and letting go... Rich, deep echoes of what was and what is... and where your heart might ever, always long to find its home.